The Cursed Twins
by BlackWolf888
Summary: They defied duty. Refused their destiny. They let their kingdom slip into chaos and ruin, their subjects go hollow. And, ultimately, they caused the toll of the bell. They called them weak, cowards, traitors, accursed offsprings of a sick line; but they were just two brothers trying to protect each other. And so, the dogged contender comes, to force the lords back to their thrones.
1. Dogged contender

The Cursed Twins

 _ **Dogged contender**_

 _chapter 1 of 3_

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We knew he had come when we heard the giant hinges moan and the air rushing in.

I can smell the dust that swirls in the sudden gust of air. For how long had this door remained closed?

For how long have we been in this room?

I remember the day we closed the door behind us. The hunted princes, royalty downgraded to vagabonds, two runaways. Prince Lothric, last disappointment of his line, and his cripple brother - me - the once legendary warrior now crawling like a worm. With extended fingers they pointed at us, always, until the very last minute. And we never cared. About any of it, about any of them. Fools all of them, always relying on someone else to do for them what they can not. They called us their princes and they called themselves our servants, but it was the other way around. They demanded, constantly demanded, and we had to obey.

Slay the demon prince, Lorian, for our sakes. And I did.

Be a strong ruler like your father, Lothric. And he tried. Heavens know he tried.

Be the lords you ought to be. Burn your bodies, your souls for us - but this we didn't do. This once, we didn't obey. We didn't.

We ran away; together, as we have always been. That's the only thing we ever cared about.

Cowards, they called us. Traitors to the realm. Immature princelings, afraid to surrender their bodies to the flames.

Oh, but I never was afraid of fire. I'd gladly burn my soul for _him_. But I have no care to do it for them.

And so the fools found another fool to do the dirty job for them. Poor Emma, did you talk him into it, as you tried to do with us? Poor, old Emma... All Lothric ever heard from your lips were words about duty, promise of a glorious end among the flames. But there's nothing glorious about fire. I know. I've fought it.

Let it fade, I say.

Kindling to stoke a fire, that's all he ever was for them. They tried to raise him like a pig for slaughter. No one ever cared for his suffering. No one could feel the pain that tormented him day and night. They wanted him to kindle the flame, but - oh, poor brother - flames were already consuming him from within. I alone heard his screams at night. I alone saw the tears he spilt. I saw him writhe in pain; until I could stand it no longer.

Ah, I'd gladly burn my very soul for him.

I was the one who persuaded him to run away. It was always me, even when we were younger, who proposed the craziest things. I remember when I convinced him to put some golden pine resin in Emma's kerchief. Poor, old, _fool_ Emma.

He couldn't have run away without me. For all my disability, I am his strength. He was afraid, but I swore I'd protect him against anything and anyone.

It was so long ago that we closed the door of this cathedral behind us, refusing all apart from one another. Let them all sink in the Abyss, with their titles of lords and princes. I need not their titles. The highest praise is to have him call me 'brother'. _His_ dear brother.

And I care not that he has no crown. For me, he is the king, my one and only king. We rule a kingdom of two, and that's all we ever needed.

Nestled in this dusty hall we remain but, for all its walls and locked doors, we are free here. For the first time; free.

Arrogant brats. Sick in body and mind, sick even in the way we love each other. Let them call us what they will, let them point their fingers. Let them dwell among half-burning cinders, let their despair grow as they watch the flame go out. Let them curse us or our treason; we are already accursed, as is this ignorant creature they sent to do their bidding.

And so, the dogged contender comes.

I wonder if he knows he is not the first one to try to challenge us. He is, however, the first one to make it this far. The first to open that door.

He walks in, heavy footsteps muffled by the worn carpet. Heavy breathing. He is tired from fighting our trusted soldiers, the ones that guard the stairs. No one had managed to climb those steps before. We thought the soldiers were enough; too many, even. Archers, sword-fighters, spear-wielders. As it turned out, they weren't too many for this damned Unkindled.

Not such an incompetent contender, after all, but a fool nonetheless.

Lothric can see him enter the room; I hear my brother stir weakly.

"Oh dear", he sneers and almost makes me want to laugh, because this little joke is for me: a perfect imitation of father's condescending tone, the one he always had when talking to us. I cannot laugh - the sounds I make when I try to are frightening - but Lothric knows I appreciate the joke.

Then he turns to the Unkindled One and his voice starts dripping venom. All I'm thinking is that if he keeps talking so loudly he'll wear himself out, but I know he can't tone it down now. All his hate, all his anger for the world, his contempt for the blind worshipers of fire, all his grief and pain- our pain - give strength to his voice. And he knows he needs to speak up, for now he speaks for both of us.

"Mind you, the mantle of Lord interests me none. The fire-linking curse, the legacy of lords... Let it all fade into nothing".

Do not try to explain to him, brother. Do not waste your strength. He is not here to listen; he climbed the stairs. He went through all of our defenses, he killed our soldiers. Your words won't make him yield. He is here to drag us back into an unwanted duty; this blind sheep that bows before embers, a slave as we once were.

I hear the Unkindled unsheathe his sword - such a devoted fool. I reach for my sword. My fingers search in the dust until I grab the hilt of the old, familiar relic. It was long ago that they called me Demonslayer, but the blade still burns with a scorching heat.

I know he can see me crawl along the floor. It's not hard to imagine what he's thinking. But if he will not yield, I won't, either.

He has to be strong to have made it this far, I don't doubt that. But he's fighting for duty, and we learned long ago that its power is insubstantial.

I am wielding this sword for him, and him alone: my brother and king.

Beware, Unkindled One, for today you will fight much more than a cripple.


	2. That is our curse

The Cursed Twins

 _ **That is our curse**_

 _chapter 2 of 3_

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I hear his footsteps: first on the stone floor, then muffled by the carpet, then on stone again. His blade slices the air. He's eager to fight.

I will not disappoint you, Unkindled One. I will turn you into less than ash for daring to set foot in here.

I use my sword as leverage to lift myself and let him face me, let him know that I am ready, too. We won't go back. I won't let him take us back.

Lothric sits climbed on the altar, but I feel his presence strongly, as if he is next to me. It's two against one. It's always been us two against the world.

My brother's miracles encircle me. It feels like strong sunlight on naked skin, despite my armor. Then I know he moves me through space because my legs are not touching the floor any more. No part of my body touches the floor, and that feels so strange. So unusual.

It doesn't last though - it never does. My knees hit the floor and I hear a gasp from somewhere in front of me: the Unkindled One, caught off guard. At times like this, I wish I still had my eyesight, just to see the startled look on his face. Is there surprise in his eyes? Fear, perhaps?

Is he close enough to see me smile?

I swing my greatsword and feel it hit flesh. I hear a pained grunt; clank of armor against the floor. He is trying to get away from me.

This is it, brother. I trust my body to you. Guide my hand.

I lift my sword, even though by now the Unkindled One is too far away, and then my knees part with the floor for barely a heartbeat. And I know it, even before I feel the floor underneath me again, that my attack won't miss. In this fight, Lothric is my eyes and my legs, and I am the blade. I am the force. I am the rage. We are but pieces of a whole, incomplete without one another.

The force of my swings is enough to break demon bones. My opponent grunts again and frantically tries to get away from me.

It's no use, Ignorant One.

With sudden surges of warmth, my brother moves me to where I need to be. I let his power embrace me again and again; it feels like sun rays hugging me, brief comforting seconds in the rage of battle. So light, so similar to a caress from Lothric's actual fingers; and oddly similar to stroking the fur of a wild beast. My voice is monstrous as I growl, his is soft as he chants.

But Lothric is angry, too, besides his seeming passivity. Lothric is furious. I feel it in those moments of respite, when I move through space and time at his will; when our heartbeats merge and beat as one. When my knees hit solid ground again, his rage comes out as a howl from my lips.

A blade pierces me. Hm. Clever ash after all. He really must have been through a lot to be able to regain his composure so quickly.

I wonder if he met father.

Last time news reached us, we learnt that he ended up chasing a shadow to the depths of the royal garden. We heard he locked himself up in there, singing endless lullabies to his youngest, this supposed perfect heir. This child that no one ever saw.

He never sang lullabies to us.

But no matter. He brought a different kind of curse upon himself, and it serves him right.

Is it possible that the Unkindled One followed father to the rotten bowels of that garden? Could he have killed him already? Ah, but that's a crazy hope. Why would he do that? Father can give him nothing now. He's just a sick, crazy old man. But I guess it's not improbable. The Unkindled One could have killed him, if only to take the power that resides in his soul. He was, after all, the King of Lothric.

I wonder if his beloved Ocelotte mourned for his father's death. If he shed even a single tear; his pampered child of dragons.

My rage makes my attacks vicious. I swing my sword with all my might, perhaps with more than I should. The momentum of the large blade makes it hard to keep my balance on these unstable legs; I have to use my left arm to stop my body from toppling over.

The Unkindled One rolls around, dodging most of my attacks. He manages to hit me back, and I know this feeling. I know this pain: it's different from the one that usually torments me. Dents in my armor. Yes, I know this. It reminds me of glorious days long since passed, back when I was standing on two strong feet and my voice inspired thousands.

I will show this arrogant ash a glimpse of that fighter.

I ignore the pain in my legs as I climb slowly on my feet. I push myself to straighten my body; my muscles from the waist down are screaming.

And, just like this, I'm standing. I'm standing on my two legs, drawn to my full height and, for a second, there is no pain. For a second, I am Lorian the Demonslayer in his prime.

And then the moment is gone. Pain shoots through my body. My legs feel like twigs ready to snap under my weight; they tremble from the struggle. I bid myself to hold on just a little more, just until I'm ready to attack, and I lift my sword above my head. My heart swells at being so high above the ground. I'm feeling like a giant ready to crush an ant.

And that's it. My legs give in and I'm falling back to my eternal tether. I turn back into one of the ants myself. But I never let any of my falls go to waste. I bring down my sword with all the might of my body and the momentum of the fall. When the metal blade crushes against the floor, the sound is deafening. The glass on the high windows rattles.

My legs are stinging, but it's worth it, because I hit him. I hear him tumble across the floor and then he gulps down this bloody potion of his. In my next barrage of blows, he keeps his calm and retaliates. He's more experienced than I first thought. Next thing I know, his blade is hacking at me relentlessly.

Brother, take me out of here.

He does; in the short moments of warmth and that lapse between my disappearance and my reappearance, I feel Lothric's fear. He is afraid for me.

The Unkindled One's sword cuts again through me, knocks my breath out of my lungs, sends me staggering back. Blood fills my voiceless mouth.

My attacks get more desperate with each passing second. It has become hard to control the weight of my sword. Lothric's miracles are compensating for the disability of my legs, but it's not enough. That Unkindled One is quick.

The pain sways my hand and I grit my teeth. I remind myself I've been through worse.

Like that night, so many moons ago, when I held Lothric's crying form in my arms and decided to share his pain.

I had been trying to calm my brother for so long, but nothing worked. Nothing ever worked. That night, he had been holding me with his long, frail fingers. He clung on to me tightly as if I was his only hope, the only light in the darkness. Such a frail thing in my hands, so weak. He wasn't made to withstand this kind of suffering.

But I, I was strong and tall. I could ride a dragon and swing a greatsword with ease, and pain had never stopped me from doing anything. My body could take it. I could take it. Or so I thought.

So I took a part of his curse upon me.

That I'd know such agony was unimaginable. I couldn't see, I couldn't stand; my tongue paralyzed in my mouth. Lorian, the proud prince, falling to the ground never to stand again. But it was worth it, for the last thing I saw was the figure of Lothric in my hands, his silver hair glinting in the candlelight. It was worth it because, for a second, just a second before darkness engulfed me, I saw his face relax. I saw his torment diminish, I saw the pain relieved from his features.

I would do it all over again, just for this second.

Are those tears that pool against my metal blindfold?

I am spitting blood. I can smell it.

I don't have the power to lift my sword anymore. I cannot move. Sounds fade in and out, and I can't tell which way they come from. I don't know where I am, which way is up or down, or if the Unkindled One is close and ready to hit again. I don't know where Lothric is. I don't know where Lothric is!

The weight of my sword carries me down and my useless body can't fight it. I try to stop by putting my hands against what I think is the ground. I cannot let this happen.

I feel a scream of despair tear me up from the inside.

I cry out for Lothric and I panic when I listen to the garbled hiss that comes out of my lips. Just this once, please, let me speak with an actual voice. I have to tell Lothric- I have to-

I feel the clonk of my crown against the floor as my body collapses.

Brother… I am sorry.

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Silence. For a minute, or two. For a span of time long enough for me to wonder where I am.

Then a deep thud echoes in my head; and then it dies away. Then another one. The sound of a heartbeat.

Is it my heartbeat? No. No. My heart doesn't beat anymore. My body is numb. Yet this heartbeat resonates through my body as if it were my own. The sheer force of the sound keeps my blood pulsing.

And then I just know that this is Lothric's heartbeat.

"My brother…" This is his voice. It appears to come from somewhere close to me, even though there is nothing but darkness around me. How can something be so close if there are no dimensions?

However… there is warmth. Like the kiss of a sun ray running down my hand. Closing around my fingers.

"Unyielding sword of Lothric's prince…"

His voice is crumbling from sadness and I almost can't take the sound of it. He is close, though; he is the warmth on my hand. I cling on to the sensation of his touch, the only thing I can feel, the only sensation in a body that otherwise feels like a hollow shell.

Then there is smell, also. There's the familiar scent of his breath on my cheek. He leans closer to my ear and feeling creeps back under my skin. His breath against my skin, ever enticing, heart-breakingly seducing.

Then he whispers with that voice he keeps only for me, that voice which makes my soul shudder.

"Rise, if you would".

Yes. Your wish is my command, brother. My body and soul is at your service. Your pulse beats through my veins.

I will rise, because what belongs to you, belongs to me, also. Be it pain or grief, be it joy; be it life, or even death. We are pieces of a whole, and we belong to one another. I cannot live without you; and the thing is, I never could. But I also cannot die without you.

We truly are our father's children. We are what he aspired us to be and what the scholars warned him against. Bound by immortality, by blood and grief, we are condemned to suffer together for as long as we draw breath. Together. That is our curse; and I embrace it, for it is also our blessing.

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 **Author's note:** I think it is safe to assume that Lorian is blind, even though an item description just says "mute and a cripple". I don't think a fighter of his caliber and with so much at stake would cover his eyes with that crown, unless his eyes were already useless to begin with. I also think it's safe to assume that Lothric is the one casting the teleportation, and not Lorian.


	3. This spot marks our grave

The Cursed Twins

 ** _This spot marks our grave_**

 _chapter 3 of 3_

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The first time Lothric wrapped his hands around me was the day he was born.

I held him when he was just a newborn infant, a tiny and fragile thing. He was so thin already, so small and light. His first cry wasn't the loud squeal of a healthy baby, but an asthmatic, gurgling howl that chilled the blood of everyone that heard it.

The hand he wrapped around my finger wasn't chubby and soft; from the moment he was born, his fingers were long and thin like the legs of a spider, or like the talons of a hawk… No. Neither of that. They were like the claws of a dragon.

Claw-like hands. Pale skin. Yellow eyes.

Father was thrilled.

He didn't announce the birth of a son; he announced a success, spoke about him finally making it. A child of dragons, after all this time, after trying so hard. He was beyond himself with joy.

That was the day I started hating father: the day I started loving Lothric.

I knew of father's obsession, as everyone else in the kingdom did. I knew of his dream to produce a worthy heir, and I knew what he was discussing with the scholars. They were studying for years the teachings of Seath the Scaleless. They were positive they had uncovered his secret to immortality, the one true way to beat death.

How glorious this seemed in father's imagination: an immortal heir with the power of dragons, destined to become a legend. A lord that would link the fire and become even greater than Gwyn.

The unfortunate thing was that the scholars hadn't been lying; they really were on to something. However, they needed more time to study; more books; more information; more experiments.

But the Queen was already pregnant and the King was impatient. He wanted to try it out, for he might not even get another chance. He made them apply their theories on his soon-to-be-born child, bestow him immortality at all cost. He had no care for their warnings. If it didn't work, well, so be it. But, if it worked – oh, how glorious it would be.

And it worked. At first everyone spoke of absolute triumph, a success beyond expectation. And then they noticed.

Lothric wasn't destined to live. He was one of the many unfortunate children that are bound to die mere hours after they are born. He was born sick and frail; so sick, it wouldn't be a surprise if he was stillborn.

Immortality for a healthy body could indeed be a gift. But for one who is bound with death, it grows to be a curse.

That's what it became for Lothric. From the very first moment, he was on the verge of death, but he couldn't die.

He wasn't made to live and he also cannot die. With each breath, his body tries to drag him down to where it should be. It can't withstand life, but he is tied to it with unbreakable shackles. An endless torture with no way out: that's what father's gift was to him.

Even though the scholar's experiment was successful, Lothric wasn't the heir father had dreamed of. At least, he was alive and that meant that he could fulfill his duty as Lord of Cinder. Fire doesn't care whether you're healthy, of sick; fire consumes all indiscriminately.

He was revered by all, treated as a savior and a messiah, but that never was what Lothric wanted. They couldn't see. They could never see how miserable he was.

For all his life, he did the things that others chose for him. He lived because someone else chose it for him and he would die because others chose him to. He never had a say in anything. Pray. Study. Suffer. Sacrifice. All for somebody else.

But there always those moments, deep in the night, when he wrapped his hands around me and grew calmer, and somewhat happier. Those moments that nobody could control neither him nor his thoughts and his words, the only moments the real Lothric was alive. Sometimes I think I am the only one who knows the actual Lothric – not the prince, or the Lord, but the child, the brother, the man.

Spare moments aren't enough to change a lifetime of misery, but I tried my best. I stayed with him whenever I was home; he was the first person I sought out when I returned from the battlefield. I remember so many times when the gates opened and he was there, waiting, ready to give himself in my arms.

And I always held him close, all those years. I feel like I have seen him grow in my arms.

When he was younger, he enjoyed cuddling in my hug as Emma read him his bedtime stories. Poor Emma always felt so sorry for him. I think she loved him, but she was a simple woman that couldn't see beyond the truths they had taught her. She loved him, though.

Mostly she read him stories about the fire and the other Lords of Cinder; but, whenever Lothric was too depressed, she told him fairy-tales of princes of faraway lands. Princes that traveled, that were brave and fought for honor, for glory or for someone they loved, and they always returned wiser and stronger and happier than before.

At a time Lothric was fascinated by these stories. His eyes gleamed dreamily as he listened to their feats; he even smiled when he heard the "…and they lived happily ever after" in the end of the story.

But, inevitably, there came the time when those stories annoyed him.

"Is it true…?', he asked Emma one night, cutting abruptly into her narration. "Do such princes exist? Princes that do what they want, that go on adventures? That are happy, the way you describe them? Did such princes live, ever?"

He was furious all of a sudden. I was holding him, as always, and I felt him tremble as he glared at Emma.

The poor woman hesitated under his angry gaze, but then she said: "Yes… yes, of course they did".

She had hesitated for way too long. "Lies!", Lothric bellowed, despite the frailty of his voice. "Lies, lies, lies!"

His anger gave him more strength than he usually possessed; he released himself from my hug and knocked Emma's book off her grasp. "Get out!", he rasped, pointing a trembling finger to the door. "Out! Get out! Lorian", he turned to me, his voice somewhat weaker, "Lorian, show her out. Please. Take her off my sight".

I obeyed his command, rising from his bed to see the terrified woman out.

"And then come back", Lothric added with a hint of despair in his voice, as if fearing that I would leave, too.

Emma turned to look at me with something dark in her eyes; a judging look. I knew what that look was about. She didn't approve my spending the night in the same bed with him, but I didn't care about that at the moment.

"I think it's best if you don't read any more of these stories to him", I told her quietly, opening the door for her.

"This is hardly the way to react, though! I'll have to teach him proper manners, or-"

"Just", I interrupted her, "no more stories about princes who lived happily ever after. Please", I lowered my voice so that Lothric wouldn't hear my plea.

Emma's gaze turned into one of pity. "They do, Lorian", she whispered. "They do exist, those princes. Things might not always look good for them, but they always find peace in the end". She looked close to crying now.

I stared at her for a moment too long before shoving her out of the door and saying: "Goodnight, Emma".

It had always been easy for her to believe in fairy-tales. But such bedtime stories could no longer bring joy to Lothric. He needed facts, he needed something real to grab on to.

The next years passed with him immersed in endless tomes, reading, looking for some answer. To what, I did not know. I think he didn't know either, until he finally found it.

It was late one afternoon and I had just returned to the castle. I went straight to the Archives where I knew I would find Lothric studying. He was in his usual spot, surrounded by books and countless candles. He lifted his head when he heard me approaching and that's when I saw it.

He was smiling.

"Brother", he whispered as I embraced him. "Brother, I've found it", he said with a voice that quivered from excitement. "Look! See this book? These are the memoirs of Aldia, Scholar of the First Sin!"

I took the old, tattered book in my hands; the thing had almost rotted away.

"Aldia?", I murmured. I had heard about him, but his teachings were banned.

"Yes, yes!" I had never seen Lothric so excited. "Do you know what I found in these pages?"

I looked at him questioningly, but for a moment I was mesmerized by the sheer happiness his face radiated.

"There is a way, brother", he was whispering now, "without the fire! There is a way for the world to go on! Some scholars think so, too; but Aldia was sure of it! Fire is not necessary!"

I had never seen such hope in his eyes. He leaned in closer to me and wrapped his hands around my neck, as he had done so many times before. "Brother…", he whispered, almost terrified by his own happiness, "we could just let it fade!"

Let it fade. We took this decision together – and it got us here. We fight this Unkindled One to defend this choice, the only choice we ever made. We are not going back.

From the moment we closed this door behind us we knew that we would die here. We knew that this spot would mark our grave because, either way, we would never go back. We were prepared for it from the beginning.

And if I am to die now, like this, with my sword in my hand and Lothric's hands wrapped around my shoulders, then so be it. I wouldn't have it any other way.

And I will; I know I will. I have fallen so many times already. Lothric won't be able to keep bringing me back for long. He is exhausted and the Unkindled One is a sly fox. He figured out that no matter how many times he brings me down, I will rise again as long as Lothric draws breath. So now he has turned his attention to him.

Lothric's weight is nothing for me; I carry him with the same easiness I did when he was just a baby. But, no matter how I try to shield him, the Unkindled One finds a way to hit him. I have always been the one to protect him and now it seems that I can't.

But I can't let the Unkindled One take him to the flame. He had always been so afraid of it. Everybody always told him that there is no reason to be afraid; that after kindling the fire, he would be one with the Soul of Cinder, and live forever.

He always hated the idea of living forever.

And there was this other thing that petrified him: what if he burns forever, since he is already immortal? What if he keeps kindling and re-kindling the flame and the burning never stops? What if he never finds solace, not even in death?

Whether alive or dead, he is doomed to suffer. But there is one flicker of hope, one consolation: I am doomed with him. Even if he is to burn forever, I will be burning alongside him. Together even in hell.

I will always be there to hold him in my arms, and he'll always be able to wrap around my shoulders these deformed, claw-like fingers that I have so loved.

We never regretted our choice. How could we regret the only right thing we ever did in our life? It led us both on a path of pain, of hate, of sorrow, but it made our lives worth living. At least, now I will die for something that really matters. Not for some fire. Not for some people. Not for an arrogant father.

I will die for Lothric, and with Lothric.

I cling on to him harder and give him a little reassuring squeeze. I know that the next time I fall, I won't be rising again. He knows it, too. He can feel that we are drawing our last breaths; the last of these suffering, pained breaths. His hand reaches for my exposed cheek and I feel a small caress. So many feelings condensed in this small touch, so many words.

But this isn't goodbye. There will never be a goodbye between us.

All right, then, brother. Time to rest.

No matter what happens, in death I won't be carrying this disabled body any more. In death I will be Lorian again, Lothric's brother, the knight that was his shield and his sword. He will wrap his hands again around me and cuddle, and wait for his bedtime story. And I will have a voice again; so I'll hold him, and perhaps I'll tell him a story about two princes that really existed, and that found peace in the end.

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 **Author's note:** So... thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your comments and reviews on this little piece. Note that this is my take on what Lothric's curse actually is. I think it's a very logical explanation but, logical or not, it's not canon.


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